Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (20 page)

To his relief, he saw the shifter getting shakily to his feet. Lifeless beetles, dusted with frost from the giant’s wintry blast, littered the ground.

That must explain Vor’s recovery, he thought. And Sevren—

Sevren had not recovered. Kauth could see beetles still lodged beneath the skin of the shifter’s face and hands, and he moved with what seemed to be enormous effort. He slowly bent to retrieve one of his knives, and just as slowly straightened.

“Sevren?” Kauth said. “Do you need help?” Something was terribly wrong with the shifter, as though the beetles under his skin, rather than his own mind, were in control of his body.

Sevren shuffled forward until he was next to Kauth, then suddenly slashed at him with the knife. Fortunately, whatever was slowing the shifter’s feet interfered with his attack, and Kauth dodged it easily.

“What in the—” Kauth said, but another swing cut him off. “Sevren!”

“Heal him!” Zandar shouted from somewhere behind him. “Your wand!”

Kauth glanced down at the wand in his hand. “I have to touch him first,” he muttered. Trying to imagine it as a dagger, he dodged another swipe of Sevren’s knife and lunged, trying to time the wand’s discharge for the instant it touched the shifter.

But it didn’t touch the shifter. Sevren jerked to the side just in time, then plunged his knife into Kauth’s stomach. The taste of blood filled his mouth, complementing the bitter taste of defeat.

W
hich side are we on?” Rienne asked, turning to look at the dragonborn crashing through the forest toward them.

“Neither,” Gaven said. “Let’s get out of here.” He retrieved his sword from the ground and started in the direction they had been running, but the dragonborn woman moved to block his path.

The initial volley of arrows had little effect—the dragonborn had attacked in haste, surprised by the sudden appearance of one group of enemies while they were in the midst of interrogating another. Most of the woodland dragonborn, as Gaven imagined them, had dropped their bows and drawn huge-bladed swords, charging their new enemies, the farmers. A few hung back and loosed well-aimed arrows into the fray. But the leader’s attention hadn’t shifted away from Gaven.

“You still haven’t told me where you’re going,” she said, “though you seem in a great hurry to get there.”

“I do not”—Gaven suddenly grasped how to form a contraction in their language—“I don’t know our destination. We came to learn more about the Prophecy, about the Time Between, but I don’t know anything about this land or your people. We are not so much travelers as explorers.”

The dragonborn seemed to consider this carefully, while letting her eyes rove across their faces, clothing, and weapons. She seemed oblivious to the battle raging around her.

“We will call you pilgrims, then, and place you under the protection of the city of Rav Magar. But if you accept our protection, you must fight in our defense.”

That struck Gaven as odd, but he was willing to accept it. He turned to Rienne.

“She says she’ll accept us as pilgrims and protect us, but we need to help them fight these other ones.”

“I suppose that answers my original question.”

“Right. At least these ones were willing to talk to us.” He looked back at the dragonborn, who had listened intently to their conversation but showed no sign that she understood. “We accept your protection and offer our swords to your defense,” he said, aware that he’d lapsed back into more formal dragon-speech.

“The left flank could use our aid,” the dragonborn leader said. Gripping her axe and shield more tightly, she strode to where one of her soldiers was struggling to beat back the long hafts and biting blades of two of the farmers. The leader opened her mouth and released a blast of lightning that shot through the two enemies, leaving them scorched and dazed but still standing.

So the resemblance to dragons is more than superficial, Gaven thought.

Gaven spoke a spell to shield himself in cold fire and charged after the dragonborn leader, charging the nearest dragonborn farmer. He knocked his foe’s halberd aside with a swing of his sword, then brought his blade back around in a deadly cut. Rienne whirled into motion beside him, Maelstrom dancing easily between the farmers’ long polearms.

The skirmish was over quickly, before Gaven reached his stride. The woodland dragonborn outnumbered their opponents and seemed to outmatch them in skill as well—not surprising, Gaven supposed, considering that the farmers were laborers who left their fields to pursue Gaven and Rienne through the woods. A few of the farmers ran off into the woods, but fleet-footed woodland dragonborn pursued them.

“Thank you for your help,” the dragonborn leader said. She pressed her fists together in front of her chest and bowed slightly to Gaven and Rienne.

Gaven returned the bow. “Thank you for not turning your wrath on us.”

“I’m Lissann Orak,” she said, “first captain of the Magar scouts. Or Lissa.”

“I am Gaven. My companion”—he tripped over that word, unsure of which nuance of meaning to put on that word, finally deciding on the most neutral—“is Rienne ir’Alastra.” Hearing her name in the midst of Gaven’s Draconic babble, Rienne gave a small bow.

“As pilgrims you are under the protection of Rav Magar, and we are obligated to see you safely there. But we must go a little farther before we can return to our city. Will you accept a delay in our escort?”

“You’re asking us? Your people must hold pilgrims in high regard.” Gaven wasn’t positive he had grasped the right meaning of the word,
hathandra
. “Those who travel” was the simplest translation, but the word carried a definite connotation of a sacred purpose, of being on pilgrimage.

“Our cities are constantly at war, but pilgrims must travel safely,” Lissa said.

“So your city is at war with the one back there on the river?”

Lissa nodded. “Rav Dolorr. We’ve fought them for generations.”

Gaven wondered how long a generation was for these draconic people—were they as long-lived as dragons? “How far away is Rav Magar?”

“Twelve days’ march.”

“Twelve days!”

“For a marching army, yes. Eight for us, if you can keep up with us.”

“So that explains why farm laborers had weapons close at hand, so ready to give chase,” Gaven said. “Ah. They were chasing you.”

“They saw us at the edge of the forest. They must have assumed we were scouts from your city.”

“That is unfortunate,” Lissa said. “That means Rav Dolorr is already alerted.”

“Yes. When they spotted us, one ran into the city when the rest pursued us.”

“That’s important news. I have to consult with my
takarra.”

Consult her wings? Gaven wondered. Then he saw Lissa call two other dragonborn to stand beside her—one on either side—and speak with them. Her “wings,” then, were something like lieutenants or advisors. The ones who keep her aloft, he thought.

Gaven looked around. He’d been so intent on the conversation with Lissa that he’d all but forgotten about the other dragonborn, who were tending to their wounded and the scout who had fallen. And about Rienne, standing still but expectant beside him. She arched an eyebrow at him.

“They’re scouts from another city,” he explained, “at war with the one we saw first. We might have ruined their mission when those farmers spotted us.”

“What’s the destination of our pilgrimage?” Rienne asked.

“I don’t know. Didn’t think to ask. I know they’re planning to escort us back to their city, Rav Magar. I have no idea what there is to see there.”

“What did you tell them of our purpose?”

“I don’t know,” he said, annoyed. “I kept us alive, didn’t I?”

“So far. I hope we’re as lucky in a city full of these people.”

Lissa and her
takarra
decided to head back to Rav Magar, their mission a failure. Drawing near to Rav Dolorr would invite disaster—the city was alerted, and the first group of dragonborn to chase the intruders wouldn’t return. Before long, the forest would be crawling with soldiers from Dolorr, better armed, better trained, and in greater numbers than the laborers they’d defeated so easily.

They sped through the forest for the rest of the afternoon, across ground that rose steadily toward the feet of the mountains. Traveling with the dragonborn confirmed the impression Gaven had gleaned from the fields they’d passed—these people ate bread and drank wine, as well as dried meats Gaven couldn’t identify and exotic fruits they gathered as they walked. They shared their food with Gaven and Rienne, a welcome respite from their diet of dry journeybread. They stopped traveling when the sky fell dark, set
up camp and told stories around their fire, then slept until dawn. Camping under the trees and relieved of the responsibility for keeping watch, Gaven fell quickly into the deepest sleep he’d had since their arrival in Argonnessen.

As much as their eating and sleeping habits seemed familiar, the way the dragonborn interacted with each other was totally foreign to Gaven. It was Rienne, despite her ignorance of Draconic, who observed that their behaviors seemed to be based on relative social status. Lissa was the dominant member of the band, clearly, and each other member made varying gestures Rienne interpreted as marks of submission each time they approached her. There was a clear second tier, the ones Lissa had identified as her
takarra
, who made submissive gestures to Lissa but received them from the others. Once Rienne pointed these out, he could make sense of what were essentially military ranks. She seemed to perceive nuances even in the lower ranks that were beyond him, though. Rienne surmised that they were related more to family status than individual status—and, of course, being a member of Aundair’s nobility, she would be sensitive to that sort of thing. Gaven never had any patience for it.

The next day, they emerged from the forest to the bank of a wide, slow river, the opposite bank barely within bowshot. Gaven guessed, and Lissa confirmed, that the river flowed past Rav Dolorr and emptied into the bay. For seven more days they traveled upriver, scrambling up past its rapids and cataracts. Before long they were walking in a narrow gorge that cut through the mountains. Then, at the end of the eighth day, the gorge opened into a wide valley cradling a large, still lake—the source of the river.

Fields spread along the nearer sides of the lake, and herds scrambled over the valley’s steep sides—probably goats or sheep, but just shadows on the darkening hillside. The city of Rav Magar grew around the far end of the lake and up the back of the valley. A high wall surrounded the city, spiked with jagged blades reminiscent of the dragonborn’s weapons—they might even have been halberds and glaives propped against a battlement. Torchlight flickered through arrow slits cut through the wall, and great watchfires blazed in towers spread along the wall. Similar towers
flanked the head of the river where Lissa’s band emerged from the gorge.

Gaven glanced up at the sky as they approached the gates between the towers, then stopped, staring. A row of bright disks shone like a strand of pearls stretched across the Ring of Siberys—ten moons all rising full on the same night.
Ten eyes gaze brightly upon the City of the Damned, watching as the pilgrim arrives
. He was the pilgrim, he was sure of it—it was just the echo of a memory, but the verse that had sprung to his mind went on to speak of the Storm Dragon.

Rienne and Lissa stopped together to look back at him, and Gaven hurried to catch up.

Guards challenged them at the gates, but let them pass as soon as they recognized Lissa. They gawked at Gaven and Rienne as they followed Lissa through, and two of them speculated aloud about what they could be, apparently not considering the possibility that Gaven could understand their words.

“They wear clothes like people,” one said.

The other snorted. “But they have fur like—” What was that word?
Meat-animals
. Livestock.

“Not much meat on them.”

The second guard gasped and pointed at Gaven. “His skin, look!”

His dragonmark. Gaven hadn’t thought about how the dragonborn would respond to the mark of the Prophecy on his skin, but Lissa hadn’t seemed to give it any notice. He was curious to hear what the guards would say about it, but they just gaped and pointed, and then he was past the guardpost and walking a rutted dirt road along the lake shore.

Lissa noticed the attention his dragonmark drew, and took off her cloak when they were out of sight of the guardpost.

“Better put this on,” she said, “and cover it up.” She gestured at his neck and arm, apparently at a loss for words to describe “it.”

“Why?” Gaven asked. “My mark didn’t seem to disturb you or your scouts.”

“Disturb is perhaps not the right word. Interest would be better. And it did interest me.”

Gaven gathered the dragonborn’s cloak—made of linen, apparently woven from flax just like in Khorvaire—around his neck. He let its folds drape over his left arm, where the dragonmark extended down past the half-sleeve of his chainmail coat. For good measure, he pulled the hood over his head, hoping it might reduce the number of casual observers who stopped in their tracks to gawk at the unfamiliar creature. Rienne had the same idea. She had unwrapped the long silk cloth she wore around her waist and was carefully draping it over her head and around her shoulders.